


Starlight, that noble fire

by VillainousVivs



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crack, Ereinion Gil-galad & Anxiety, Feanorian Positive, Fluff, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28002318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainousVivs/pseuds/VillainousVivs
Summary: Gil-galad, called Ereinion, called Artanaro, called Rodnor, called Finellach. High King of the Noldor, successor of Turgon.Son of none.
Relationships: Círdan | Nowë & Ereinion Gil-galad, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 22
Kudos: 59





	1. In which Luthien burns a bed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Scion of Somebody, Probably](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17654294) by [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm). 



> Drag0nst0rm infected me with can't-let-go-of-an-AU-syndrome!
> 
> The first line is inspired by The Usual Way by Drag0nst0rm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ereinion doesn’t mean to lead the evacuation the same way Orodreth didn’t mean to invite balrogs into Nargothrond: it just sort of happens that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why am i writing another Gil-galad origin story, you ask?
> 
> because. ~~the last one was written exclusively at 2 am and i was uh,,,, not coherent.~~ reasons.

Finrod is the one to find him because Finrod doesn’t let small things like curses and possible eternal condemnation stop him from bringing a child home.

  
(He thinks it’s a child; it’s definitely child-shaped and breathing, at least, so he can probably keep it regardless. If Huan doesn’t eat it, that is, and if it doesn’t disturb Curufin too much in the forges, if Orodreth doesn’t feud with it too much, if Celegorm doesn’t bring it with him to hunt boars, if it survives Finrod’s admittedly inexperienced handling…

  
So, probably.)

  
It’s awkward, sneaking into his own home in the dead of night with an armful of probably-child, but Finrod manages. Or he just about manages, before running into a restless Celegorm pacing in the dining room.

  
“I can explain,” said Finrod, somewhere between relieved that it’s not Curufin and caught because it’s not Orodreth.

  
“I-” Celegorm shakes his head. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”

  
“Please don’t tell Curufin,” he begs.

  
Celegorm shrugs. It’s as good as he’s going to get.

  
It takes a few tries for him to start the bath, but he manages. For a moment he hesitates: he’s not sure if those are clothes, or some sort of deformed skin. (it feels like cloth, but if that's cloth, he doesn’t-he doesn’t want to see how the actual skin looks.) In the end he takes a guess and starts cutting, and finds that it’s cloth after all.

  
The body underneath is… well, is. _Eru give me strength_ , he thinks, looking at the little thing. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling, and he’d rather not put it to words.

  
Finrod looks until he can’t, searching for wounds or bruises. If he’s trembling while he’s at it, well--there aren’t exactly anyone around to see. When he’s certain that it’s well enough to soak, he sets it in the tub and goes to fetch scissors.

  
_Not it_ , he reminds himself. _He_.

  
Hair cutting is for traitors and deserters, and even then only the most dishonorable ones. Usually. Finrod thinks this can be an exception, since there is no way in all of Beleriand to save hair like that.

  
(Like many other discoveries he’s made this night, Finrod isn’t sure how to feel about the shape of the little one’s ears.

  
It means Finrod has longer to help the boy up to his feet, and that he has more resources to draw on to care for him. It means that there would be less outrage if anyone finds out. Elves are, after all, prevalent in Nargothrond, though dwarves occasionally visit for trade.

  
Finrod doesn’t want to think what it means to find him in the outskirts of Taur-en-Faroth, starved and on the brink of fading. He doesn’t want to think about how filthy the cloth was, how sickly the hair.

  
But he is caring for this little one, now, so he must.)

  
***

  
Orodreth is not sure what to do with the child.

  
Well. He is referred to as the child, though his uncle did indeed name him: Ereinion, Scion of Kings. Grandiose and absolutely cheesy, but well, that’s Finrod for you.

  
(Not that anyone called him Ereinion; the Feanorians ignore him, Huan tolerates him, and servants mostly refer to him as ‘the child’, or when they think they can’t be heard, ‘the Marred one’. They won’t say it out loud even with Finrod out of town, but they think it’s better if his uncle hadn’t done what he’d done.

  
Orodreth agrees. Finrod might be called Wise by the Men, but just about all of Nargothrond think differently right then. No Wise man would agree to the plea of a short-lived secondborn and abandon his people and his charge.

  
_Both_ his charges.)

  
He knows children need to be fed, but with what? Celegorm and Curufin have brothers, though he’s sure neither would help after the little stunt his uncle has pulled. (The little stunt that gives Curufin free rein over the guilds and Celegorm oversway with the hunters. Dammit, uncle!) Celebrimbor is preoccupied with his studies, and Orodreth really doesn't know how to say “How do you feed a feral, capricious, taciturn child?” to anyone who isn’t family.

  
Not that the child hasn’t been feeding himself. There have been complaints of missing food and sounds of skittering at night. The cooks think it’s rats. Orodreth thinks it’s just the one.

  
Ah, well. The boy will be well enough for tutors soon. Perhaps they can see whatever it is Finrod sees in the child; Eru knows he can’t.

  
***

  
He stares at the little scribble on the parchment. Ereinion, it says, and he knows that that’s his name.

  
“They don’t call me that,” he says, as smoothly as he can. From her frown he knows it isn’t smooth enough, but it is smoother than yesterday. “My name is ‘the child’.”

  
His teacher--Cairneth is her name, though he isn’t to call her that; she is Cairneth to everyone else, but to him she is ‘teacher’ or ‘mistress’. The former is shared with every other tutor he has had, and the latter is shared with every other woman.

  
He would like to call her Cairneth. It is a name that is only hers and Ereinion finds it the prettiest. He has used it, once, when Orodreth asked after his studies; Ereinion knew it was a mistake even as he uttered it, going by the way Orodreth flinched.

  
Ereinion has learned early on that people often do not tell him his mistakes through words. This is good, because Ereinion doesn’t know words very well yet. But body language is universal, and that he knows well enough.

  
Cairneth flinches now, and Ereinion knows that he’s made a mistake. He should not have mentioned when other people called him. “They are not meant to,” she concedes. “If they do, remind them politely that you are called Ereinion. It is the name Lord Finrod gave you.”

  
“Lord Finrod is the one who left with the Man,” says Ereinion, and Cairneth flinches again.

  
“Yes,” she says. “Now: let’s review your vowels.”

  
They always review vowels when Ereinion makes too many mistakes in too little time. Ereinion does not mind overmuch. He is improving. Soon his pronunciation will be adequate, and he will make no more mistakes.

  
***

  
Celegorm doesn’t trust the child--Ereinion, it likes to call itself, though he staunchly refuses. Finrod has either lost his mind or was bewitched into bringing one such as this inside Nargothrond. Knowing his cousin, either is equally possible.

  
Not that the child itself holds any blame, any more than the orcs are to blame for violence. Celegorm knows the creatures of Yavanna and Orome, how they move, how they think. Each is beautiful and strong, from the smallest ant to the largest bear, and seek to live for naught but their own beautiful lives and offspring.

  
Morgoth’s creatures are not so; their minds are listless, stagnant ponds. Dead and stinking of something foul underneath. Celegorm concedes that their design is efficient. They are self-sufficient, but chained to the Enemy by a leash of despair that nothing but death can break.

  
Celegorm doesn’t know how or where Finrod picked this one up, but the point stands: it is probably a spy of Morgoth assuming the shell of a child, here to infiltrate their fair city. He hasn’t spoken to Curufin about it in length, but knows that his brother agrees.

  
“The way it looks at us… ” Celegorm shakes his head. “It’s unnatural. Marred, even. No child should ever look at their caretaker like that.”

  
(This is not to mention the fair scent of a curse radiating off of the child. Celegorm’s sure no one else can sense it, as subtle as it is.

  
Another thing that puts it with the Enemy.)

  
Curufin hangs his apron on its rack, his back to Celegorm. “What do you suppose we do about it, then?”

  
“Nothing, for now. Obviously we cannot kill an actual child in front of everyone. Not without proof, at least.”

  
His brother looks uneasy. “If you’re sure,” he says finally. “… do you think, if Tyelpe was captured by the Enemy, would he be like that?”

  
Celegorm freezes. “Ah. Perhaps I should not speak so rashly, then.”

  
“Perhaps so.”

  
***

  
Luthien does not like the sons of Feanor.

  
Actually, that is a lie: Luthien _despises_ the sons of Feanor.

  
It isn’t because they’re bad people, because they’re not. Luthien knows that no one is truly evil but Melkor and his Maiar, and she can feel that deep in their hearts, it is love and fear that fuels them, like how love and fear fuels her father’s ridiculous attempts to contain her.

  
Still, they don’t have to be so rude about it!

  
“-we have smiths and fine craftsmen of all sorts,” says Curufin, as unthreateningly as he can while keeping her locked in his brother’s room. “Please. When you return to Doriath, just put in a good word for us. Our people, they’re-”

  
Celegorm cuts him off. “Please, Atarinke! We are not beggars. Write a letter to your father; we will negotiate your freedom with Thingol.”

  
Luthien rolls her eyes. Ridiculous. “I can see in your mind that you yourselves know that you’re begging, O Short-tempered Disciple of Orome. You both know you cannot keep me here.”

  
Curufin sensibly backs off and even puts his hands up placatingly. Celegorm turns red.

  
Luthien smiles.

  
“Good lady-”

  
“ _I will wed you if that is what it takes to keep you here!_ ”

  
She stops smiling.

  
There is saying the wrong thing and there is _saying the wrong thing_. Celegorm has just crossed a line. Luthien hadn’t planned on actually holding a grudge over Aqualonde; after all, many of its victims are already released to walk in the Sun, unlike their Doomed, kinslaying counterpart, who suffers Melkor still.

  
(And if she’s honest with herself, she doesn’t really fear death. Violence and suffering are abhorrent, yes, but dying?

  
Dying is beautiful.)

  
This offense, however, she cannot forgive.

  
“Get out,” she says, as coldly as she can manage.

  
Curufin looks frostbitten, and even Celegorm’s temper cools. They leave the door locked, of course, but that means little when you’re raised by Melian.

  
In the end, Luthien decides to take a nap. Might as well use the bed while she can. And if she leaves it smouldering in her wake--well, that’s not going to be her problem, now is it?

  
***

  
Ereinion doesn’t mean to lead the evacuation the same way Orodreth didn’t mean to invite balrogs into Nargothrond: it just sort of happens that way. One moment he’s strolling along the edges of the city to get some air (as much as you can get air in the underground), the next moment the whole city’s on fire.

  
(He doesn’t dash towards the palace; it’s where all the bigger balrogs-- _Eru, those are balrogs!_ \--are heading. No; Ereinion stays planted where he is. Because he’s a coward, probably.)

  
It takes the screams of a thousand people to move him.

  
“-escape tunnel!”

  
He shakes his head. “Huh?”

  
The man at the forefront all but picks him up by the collar, the crowd behind him rushing in like a stampede of locusts. “Please! You bear the sigil of the House of Finarfin. You must know where the evacuation tunnels are!”

  
Ereinion does not know where the evacuation tunnels are because no one ever tells him anything, but he does know somewhere secluded, where he often goes when he needs to think. Hopefully the balrogs won’t find them there. “This way.”

  
They follow him into the dark crooks and crannies, and by the way their footsteps echo there must be thousands of them. Ereinion swallows; he doesn’t think they’re all going to fit.

  
(He might’ve just doomed them all. He really might have.)

  
He leads the charge until they’re faced with a smooth slab of wall, filled in during the construction of Nargothrond to keep the city secure. They can advance no further.

  
“A torch!” a woman beside him cries. One is soon passed to her. Ereinion abruptly realizes that she is Gorothel, the captain of the city guard. “Come, lord.”

  
Ereinion follows. She leads him to an etching to the wall where a sigil of the House of Finarfin is carved. “Your ring, lord.”

  
Ereinion sees what she’s referring to: a lock mechanism where a small and irregular key can be slotted, around the size of a gem of a ring.

  
A ring he does, in fact, carry.

  
As he turns the lock, a doorway opens and the crowd rushes through. He waits for all of them to pass, then locks the door behind him.

  
***

  
They’re about halfway to Sirion when the refugees behind him recover enough to sing. He can’t say that he recognizes the tune, though the subject of the song isn’t surprising: a radiant star that leads them to a new haven, guiding them through the dark.

  
He hums along. Not the prettiest of melodies, but catchy enough.

  
It isn’t until Gorothel calls him Gil-galad that he realizes they’re singing about him.

  
“Oh, Eru,” he says, though he knows he isn’t heard over the singing.

  
_This can’t last_ , he thinks, terrified. Not when Cirdan will lord over them when they arrive at Sirion. Not when he is of no lineage, noble or mundane, when he isn’t yet of age.

  
(He doesn’t want to be Lord, or captain, or anything of importance, really. He doesn’t even know where he came from! The Feanorians were kicked out before he could manage a coherent sentence, Celebrimbor doesn’t know, and Orodreth’s “You’re here by the grace of Finrod Felagund.” doesn’t really answer any of his questions.)

  
He’ll lead them there and then become a fisherman, probably, or learn whatever other craft that needs doing. Surely, surely, he would soon be forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cairneth: ship-girl (S)  
> Gorothel: horror-sister (S)  
> (not a linguist! feel free to correct me if I get something wrong!)
> 
> For the purposes of this fic, Finduilas does not exist and Orodreth never married.
> 
> looking for Silmarillion beta. shoot me an email at villainousvivs@gmail.com if you're interested!


	2. In which Cirdan pulls a Finrod

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cirdan has recently acquired one (1) Gil-galad. He has also recently lost three (3) hours of sleep and ruined one (1) perfectly fine rug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know elves only grow beards when they emotionally age, like, a thousand years?

Gil-galad is not forgotten. This is because Gil-galad is currently overseeing their rations and assigning patrols to captains, and after this he will confabulate with the wounded, and after that he will entertain/distract the orphans, and by then it would be dinner with Cirdan, and afterwards he would do some inventory, and then he would help the few healers they have change bandages, and then he would hail the next shift of guards, and then he would comfort the few (all of the) orphans who have nightmares, and then the sun would come up.

Oh, and sleep. Sleep probably fits in there somewhere. Probably. Gil-galad doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember sleeping. There’s just blots in his memory every once in a while, so he assumes that he sleeps.

Probably.

Tonight he manages to make it to dinner until he somehow ends up sprawled in an armchair in Cirdan’s study. When he startles awake, the light of the sun is spilling generously across the horizon.

“Whazzit-the phorans! Oranphs! I mean-Orphans!” he says, spectacularly faceplanting on Cirdan’s rug as he stumbles to his feet.

“Good morning,” says the shipwright.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Gil-galad demands. “You know full well how weak their fëar are! Would you have them fade in the dead of night, dreaming of a parent in Mandos? Would you undo-”

Cirdan halts him with a gesture and offers him breakfast. That is when Gil-galad's stomach remembers that he hasn’t eaten dinner after all (or the lunch before that, or the breakfast before that, though he did manage some soup before that, probably.)

“Eat,” says Cirdan. Gil-galad obeys. “I asked a few fishers to care for the orphans through the night.”

“Phank youh,” he grumbles, not quite remembering to swallow before speaking. He tries, and when it’s evident that he might be choking, Cirdan hands him a cup of water.

Gil-galad collects himself and sees that Cirdan looks mildly disgusted. “No offense to you, young lord, but would it be prudent for me to ask about your caretaker?”

“I was Orodreth’s ward.” This is true. That fact that Gil-galad wants to wince when he says it has no impact on its genuinity. Orodreth was his caretaker; Orodreth just also happened to be busy and didn’t want unruly children running around the halls. Or something. “Though he mentions that I was brought in by the grace of his uncle Finrod Felagund.”

At the mention of Finrod the shipwright tenses, looking into Gil-galad’s eyes. Cirdan’s eyes seem to pierce through him. Gil-galad isn’t deterred; he has seen balrogs in Nargothrond. A thousand of Cirdan’s scrutinizing stares is better than balrogs in Nargothrond.

“Thank you for the meal,” he says, setting the half-finished plate on the tea table, “but I really must go. Good day, my lord.”

***

Cirdan thinks about cursing Finrod. Plays around with the idea in his head. The lord was a good friend, a reliable ally, and apparently, the most incorrigible man after Feanor himself.

(It would be incredibly satisfying to insult him in his many different names. Finrod. Felagund. Artafinde. Nom. Ingoldo. Felakgundu. Findarato. Felagon. Edennil. Atandil. Firindil. The list goes on.)

He refrains, in the end, for no other reason than that he himself has landed on the same conclusions.

Ereinion Gil-galad is a child who has not seen sixty summers, and he is in dire need of an adoption. And self-care instructions. And a growth spurt. (A growth spurt he would likely never see if he keeps going the way he is.)

Cirdan has never wanted a child, though he has also never not wanted a child. He considers his options, and decides he doesn’t have any, not really.

For the first time since his awakening to Elbereth’s light, Cirdan plots.

***

Gil-galad has offended Cirdan somehow, because there is no way an unoffended lord is demanding so many meetings in so little time.

(At first Gil-galad thought nothing of it. Maybe Cirdan just wanted to check up on things more, see where all his generously donated resources were going. Maybe he wanted Gil-galad on a short leash, like Orodreth with the guilds in Nargothrond, which he honestly doesn’t mind, he can probably find time to write reports somewhere.

Except these meetings had somehow become routine in the months that followed their arrival. Most houses are finished now and the builders have moved on to wall fortifications and workshops. Gil-galad’s people are slowly but surely paving their own pastures and breeding their own stock. He can’t repay Cirdan yet, but he doesn’t doubt that he’d be able to, one day. And if it’s repayment Cirdan wants, he would have already asked.

And so, with little to do but maintain the steady growth and wellbeing of his(?) people, Gil-galad had told Cirdan that their meetings should become less ordinary. And less frequently during mealtimes. 

He did not expect a rebuttal.

Cirdan’s arguments had been polite, but firm: they would keep meeting. It would still be mealtimes.

Gil-galad had asked why.

“Why do you think?” asked Cirdan, voice on edge.

Gil-galad had not asked again.)

Thus he arrives at the one sensible conclusion: he has offended Cirdan the Shipwright, to whom they owe protection and maybe fealty. Oh, and half-a-year’s worth of living necessities for several thousand people. No big deal. 

(Gil-galad wishes, not for the first time, that people tell him things. Not that he hasn’t heard the rumors: Cirdan is one of the ancient Sindar who’s awoken to the twilight of Varda before the Eldar ever crossed the sea, rumored to have received the blessing of the Valar themselves in his craft and station. 

Cirdan, who he has also offended. Somehow.)

Gil-galad swallows, staring nervously at Cirdan’s oaken door. It’s time for lunch again and he doesn’t know what he should do. Can he ask again? Would Cirdan be even more furious? Should he wait for Cirdan to tell him? _Will_ Cirdan tell him?

(They’re still relying on the fishers to winter--there simply isn’t enough time to plant anything this year, and there’s only so much hunting they can do with-)

“Excuse me, my lord?”

Gil-galad jumps. He’s stayed so long the attendant’s already brought the meal over. “L-let me open the door,” he manages, slipping into the room just before her.

Cirdan is sitting at the tea table where they usually dine. He somehow emanates a sense of foreboding with lifting just one eyebrow.

“Did something keep you?” he asks, gesturing for Gil-galad to sit.

“No much,” says Gil-galad, who feels like all the answers he can give are wrong.

Believing as if he’s done something forbidden (Tardiness? Maybe Cirdan just doesn’t like Gil-galad’s poor manners?), Gil-galad sits. And swallows. And thanks the attendant for the meal, and doesn’t eat.

(It’s good food. Really good food. He’s just… not hungry. And maybe a little sick?)

“Um, Lord Cirdan-”

Cirdan’s frown frowns further, and Gil-galad flinches. “Eat,” he says.

He eats. Ignores how his stomach is not behaving. And eats more.

When he’s done he stands and excuses himself. He makes it two steps before his innards does a wonderfully accurate somersault and spills its contents across the rug.

***

Cirdan has recently acquired one (1) Gil-galad. He has also recently lost three (3) hours of sleep and ruined one (1) perfectly fine rug. 

(He doesn’t know where he’s gone wrong.)

He’s patting Gil-galad’s back now, letting the lad finish what he’s doing. If he tries (and he often does), he can parse the edges of Gil-galad’s fëa without the other noticing, and what he sees isn’t good.

For all his worry over the wellbeing of orphans, Gil-galad seems to have missed the one: himself. Cirdan doesn’t know where Finrod found him. Wherever it was, it wasn’t good.

“I-I’m sorr-”

He waves the apology away. “You are unwell. Will you visit a healer?”

“Um. No, it’s fine. They just got the last of the wounded back on their feet last week. They deserve a break.”

 _And you don’t?_ “Then take a rest day.”

Gil-galad shakes his head, clearly still dizzy. “I’ve rested enough. Tell the servants I’m sorry about the mess. Thanks for the meal, really, it was good. I have to go.”

Gil-galad leaves, calling for an attendant on the way. He doesn’t look back.

Cirdan has recently acquired one Gil-galad. It's just paranoia speaking, but he hopes he won't lose him any time soon.

***

Gil-galad is not panicking, like how he is not drowning.

He’s just… taking a swim. At night. Poorly.

(He didn’t mean to walk out that far--he just… he was just taking a walk… and thought he saw something in the water, and the ice seemed perfectly safe, he’s seen people skate on the ponds- 

-It’s cold. It’s really cold. And he’s wearing so many layers, layer’s that are getting wet-he’s-

-He’s not going to get them off in time, his boots are stuck, his hair is dragging him down. Why, oh why has he never learned to swim?

Okay, he admits it, he doesn’t actually think this is how he’s going to go. It’s… less eventful than he hopes. He’s done some good things, he supposes, so maybe, maybe-

-maybe… maybe … may… be… 

… )

***

Ulmo does not usually notice drowning elflings because elflings normally do not swim in the ocean on winter evenings. As it stands, Ulmo does notice the one drowning Gil-galad.

(He debates whether to let him sink. This is Arda Marred with paths unwoven and work unspoken. He had not stopped Feanor’s ships. He had not eroded the Grinding Ice. Is this drowning the will of the Eldar? Can he intervene?

Should he?

He has seen this little one before in the arms of the Lord of Nargothrond, frail and dying. He had heard Finrod’s plea that night to deliver them safely to home. 

Well. Finrod never mentioned how many times he should deliver them, now did he?)

***

Cirdan wakes up to the sea howling. “Lord Ulmo?”

Ulmo doesn’t speak, at least not with words. Instead the waves tug him along the wayward shore with alarming urgency, and he reaches out with his fëa to find out what the Vala wants.

And he finds-

***

Gil-galad wakes to the sun spilling generously across the floor, only this time he is not in Cirdan’s study.

He is in a bed. In a room. A room that he is not familiar with, but recognizes.

He is in Cirdan’s bedroom.

 _What_ , is what he wants to say, except it comes out as tides of disgorging coughs. For a moment it feels like he’s just woken up in Nargothrond for the very first time, too-hot and sticky and spinning. He’s shivering, he thinks, but he isn’t sure. The world seems to go from waking to sleep to waking at the blink of an eye while he glides uncomfortably in between.

When he recovers there are already two people who've come to investigate.

One is the healer, Lirion, and the other is a very, very angry Cirdan.

(Are those stubbles? _Cirdan has stubbles?_ )

“Good afternoon,” says Lirion, taking a seat beside the bed. Cirdan remains standing. “You gave us quite a scare, Lord Gil-galad.”

Gil-galad nods at him, though it feels more like an involuntary dip of his head. “Are you going to make me drink nasty nasty medicine?”

Lirion smiles. “No. I believe the Lord is the one to do that.”

Gil-galad turns towards Cirdan. “Lord Orodreth,” he begins. Wait, that’s… not right. “Lord Cirdan. Nasty nasty medicine?”

Cirdan takes something from a passing servant. It smells just like the one Orodreth… Finrod…? It smells like what the Lords of Nargothrond used to give him. “Ughgh,” he says.

“Open your mouth,” Cirdan commands. 

Gil-galad pouts.

Lirion chuckles. Cirdan lets out an exasperated sigh. “Ereinion, open your mouth.”

Gil-galad obeys.

***

Cirdan mulishly ignores the questioning stares he gets from the passerby.

(Yes, Gil-galad is recovering. Yes, those are stubbles. Yes, that boy will get a stern talking to. Eru knows these three things are related.)

He browses his small library. Whoever taught the boy his letters did it well, but they didn’t have time to teach him much decorum, history, or combat. It’s a miracle he’s even lived this far. 

He finds a few easier reads, paper, and writing utensils. Might as well abuse the boy’s bed arrest while he can. Not like there is much to do in winter, anyhow.

(He has never wanted a child the same way he has never wanted to tarry on these shores; it just happens that way.) 

Gil-galad is sitting up when he enters with the supplies. He looks even younger like this, with his hair unbound and mussed, not quite awake. Cirdan is happy to see that everything is eaten and that the boy looks to be finally filling out.

“Lord Cirdan?” he asks, eyeing the scrolls with open suspicion.

Cirdan’s smile is deliciously vindictive. “Your lessons start tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lirion: singing-(male suffix)
> 
> looking for Silmarillion beta. shoot me an email at villainousvivs@gmail.com if you're interested!


	3. In which Gondolin finds Gil-galad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t know what Eru intends for Gil-galad, and at this point he is too afraid to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluff and crack are heavy in this one. (There'll be angst I swear!)

Gil-galad is many things: he is under bed arrest (a bed arrest just a few doors down from Cirdan’s bedroom), he is a Lord, and he is hopelessly orphaned several times over. Gil-galad is not, however, stupid. This means that it takes him very few lessons to realize just how many laws of hospitality he had broken.

He confronts Cirdan about this. “Lord Cirdan-”

“Call me Cirdan,” the shipwright says, sounding tired. His stubbles have filled out to whiskers come spring, and Gil-galad is still caught on the very fact that 'facial hair' can be associated with 'elves'.

Gil-galad feels bad intruding on his scant free hours, but he needs to know.

“- _Lord Cirdan_ , you’ve assigned me this book. I’ve finished it.”

Cirdan nods. “And? Is there something you do not understand?”

“No, but-”

“Good!” He sets the book back on his shelf with an air of finality. “So long as you do not forget the contents, you will be fine. If you forget, feel free to borrow it anytime you want.”

“But-”

“I believe you have other assignments to do?”

Gil-galad has finished everything, actually, but he knows a dismissal when he hears one. “Yes, Lord Cirdan.”

He doesn’t miss Cirdan’s disappointed sigh when he turns to leave. A mistake, then, though he isn’t sure what.

He shall do better tomorrow.

***

Cirdan scours his library that night and sends letters to whoever would lend him the resource. Whatever help there is on this side of the sea, he would need it.

Help on parenting, that is. Or mentorship. Whichever. He cannot, as a Sindarin lord, legally adopt a scion of the House of Finarfin, but he can learn to work around that technicality. Will have to work around it, the rate things are advancing. 

(The word around town--and Sirion is the size of a large town, a small city, even, with everyone settled--is that Gil-galad should be crowned. Given the centuries of static silence from Gondolin, Cirdan can hardly blame them. Given everything he knows about his charge, he knows Gil-galad is capable. As much as Cirdan wants to bundle him up with blankets and force feed every lost drop of childhood into the lad, he cannot.

There isn’t much he can do to protect anyone, and there is every chance that even with the best armor and a skilled sword-arm that Gil-galad would just ride out one day and never come back. Assuming, of course, that he has the time to amass capable smiths in the first place, on top of training a very reluctant Gil-galad.

Cirdan prays to Iluvatar that what little time he has with him would be enough.)

He glances down at his charge’s imprecise but rapidly improving calligraphy. In another life, perhaps, he would be allowed to live in peace. But that is not this life, not here, not now.

Cirdan tucks the assignments away and brings out his bow. It is time, perhaps, for extracurriculars. 

***

Gil-galad hates hunting. 

He is too good at it.

It isn’t that he doesn’t like excelling at something, it’s just-it’s just that the one thing he wanted to be good at isn’t this.

(He had asked to be a healer. He still wants to be. Of all Cirdan’s enigmatic decisions, this is one he doesn’t understand.

“You need to learn how to survive,” Cirdan had said, “and how to fight. Hunting is where you should start.”

“But there aren’t enough healers to go around,” he argued. It’s true; they’re horribly shorthanded. In the wake of strife, everyone looks to the short term solution more than the long term: they have many great warriors and craftsmen. But who will bring the sick and weary back to their feet? Who will care for the orphans, the grieving, the rare survivors of Morgoth? Who will be there to sing them to sleep?

“Go with the hunting party,” Cirdan insisted, in a voice that barred any argument. “You can learn to skin the animals if nothing else.”

Gil-galad went.)

They come back with enough furs to properly last the winter. There is cheer in the crowds, especially when they reveal that Gil-galad shot half of their kills.

“You honor me,” he says, matching the cheer in tone, “but that is simply not true. I shot two deer at most.”

Even Cirdan looks proud when he arrives home(?).

“You seem to have talent for whichever craft you choose,” he muses.

Gil-galad does not argue, even if he wants to. “You honor me, my Lord.”

The frown on Cirdan’s face is less pronounced this time. Gil-galad decides it is good enough.

***

There are so many times this plan can go wrong, but Cirdan knows it’s the best he can do, so he rolls with it.

(All of the parenting books--of which there are very, very few--caution against leaving a child’s fëa unattended. The young need constant and vigilant supervision. It’s why children are only usually conceived in peace time, so both parents and the community can provide comfort and safety, if need be.

This, Cirdan already knows. What he wants to know is if there are ways to remedy that deficiency, if there are ways to make up for it.

What he finds instead are warnings: that people with such deficiency are often quick-tempered, weak-willed, or even cruel.

Cirdan burns that book and sends a succinct letter to the scholar who lent it to him. The book was lost in transit, it says. His condolences.

He stuffs the rest of them onto the backs of his shelves. They’re good enough for new parents, but they aren’t any help for him.

What he needs isn’t information, he decides. It’s a plan.

He grooms his ever-growing beard and broods.)

The problem with Ereinion is that the lad is too perceptive for his own good. An act he would see through; this would have to be the real deal.

His co-conspirator finds him just before bedtime. “You said you can read me a bedtime story?” she asks, toddling her way into his lap with the exact book he asked her to bring.

“Are you ready?”

The little one nods. Cirdan shifts himself to a more comfortable position, and starts to read.

***

Gil-galad is not blushing, like how he isn’t embarrassed that Cirdan the Shipwright is reading a bedtime story called _Gil-galad, Gil-galad, lead us home_. He is just reorganizing shelves like Cirdan asked and happens to overhear them talking. 

(“... but Gil-galad, Gil-galad, won’t you see? You’re a-”

“I love Gil-galad!” the child screams. 

To his terror, Cirdan pauses the story. “Oh? You do?”

“Yeah!” She’s bouncing on the shipwright’s legs, cheeks flushed and smiling. “He always hugs me at night when I have bad dreams! And he lets me sit on his lap like right now! A-and he always makes sure that Amarphen plays fair, even when she’s being angry and mean!”

“You really like him, don’t you?” Cirdan says.

The child goes serious suddenly. “Ada says we owe our lives to him,” she says. “He says if Lord Gil-galad wasn’t there, we’d be dead.”

“I agree. He is honorable and courageous, and selfless to a fault. I do not believe I have met anyone as noble in all my life,” says Cirdan, slow and careful. “Now: let’s finish the story, shall we?”)

Gil-galad is not crying. His tears are from the dust, definitely. 

If Cirdan comes over to hold him after the child leaves, well. That can be for any reason at all.

***

Gil-galad needs to find Gondolin.

It isn’t a question or suggestion; it’s a fact. His settlement (it’s actually his, he asked just about everyone, who were all very confused as to why he asked in the first place.) has had a few years to settle, and they’re expanding at such a rate that if he doesn’t establish contact with Turgon soon, they might crown him.

(He hasn’t worn his finer clothes since they arrived, and his ring--the ring bearing the sigil of the House of Finarfin--is stored in Cirdan’s desk somewhere, collecting dust. From what Cirdan has taught him of decorum, he knows his appearance is ‘passably plain’ at best and ‘could be mistaken for a servant’ at worst.

“There needs to be at least three jewels in your hair to identify you as someone of status,” Cirdan chastised, once. “And you must bear the sigil of your House.”

“But I have no House,” complained Gil-galad. Cirdan hummed noncommittally and changed the subject.

Gil-galad is also short. Noticeably short. Not ‘a couple inches that he can make up by wearing thick-soled shoes short’, but rather ‘can be mistaken as Sindarin short’. Enough time has passed that he should, in theory, have shot up a foot or two, at least according to the healers, but Gil-galad isn’t holding out hope.

If they crown him, it would be obvious-- _obvious_ \--that he conned his way there and he does not want to know what Turgon would do to him if the man’s still alive, dual-kingship notwithstanding.)

He mentions his quest to Cirdan, who is not pleased at all to hear it.

“Absolutely not,” says the shipwright. “Gondolin will not be found if it does not want to be. And you are unprepared to present yourself as Lord to a King anyhow, going by the way you dress.”

Gil-galad isn’t satisfied, but he nods. Lord he would accept. High King of the Noldor is completely out of the question.

His people seem to think otherwise, but they’ll see sense, soon.

***

It’s not everyday Gil-galad wakes up to the sound of children running amok in the halls, but he’s seen it enough times that it doesn’t surprise him.

“Lord Gil-galad!” one cries excitedly, crashing through his door without so much as a knock. “We have visitors! They say they’re from caves, can you believe that there are elves who live in caves? Well, they say they can’t go back to the caves anymore, but don’t you think that’s still so amazing? And they say they have-”

“All right, all right,” he says, rubbing his eyes. Good thing he never went to bed last night, then, and therefore has no need to change. “Why don’t you show me to our elusive guests.”

The child all but hauls him to the gates where there are, indeed, visitors from caves. Hundreds of visitors, in fact, bearing the sigil of Doriath.

“Hail,” he says, as Lordly as he can in this insane hour (it’s either very early or very late, he can’t tell.) “Who goes there?”

A captain dismounts and salutes him. “I am Ruthrion, son of Achariel. My companions are survivors of Menegroth, driven out of our homes by the kinslaying of sons of Feanor. With our company we have Elwing, daughter of Dior and Nimloth, and with her the silmaril.”

(…There’s a lot to unpack here.)

Lor-Cirdan isn’t in town. He’s gone with his senior fishers to catch the spring salmon, and would not return for at least a week.

“We seek shelter and food,” Ruthrion continues, “as well as healers for the wounded.”

Gil-galad realizes belated that everyone is looking at him: the guards, the servants, the few stragglers who are woken by the ruckus. He shouldn’t abuse Cirdan’s authority. He shouldn’t. But neither can he leave the wounded without shelter, even if they are carrying one extremely cursed silmaril.

“We will receive you, of course,” says Gil-galad, and the gates open at once. “Wake the healers! Come, friends, and dismount. You are safe in the Haven of Sirion.”

Ruthrion nods gratefully, visibly relieved to enter the safety of walls. “And who is the Lord who so graciously receives us at such an hour?”

(Gil-galad has forgotten to introduce himself. _Of course_.)

He smiles as graciously as he can. “Ereinion Gil-galad, at your service.”

Still the guard captain frowns. “Ereinion? Son of Fingon, then?”

Before Gil-galad has the chance to answer, the healers arrive for the wounded, and the question is blessedly (blessedly!) forgotten.

***

Cirdan isn’t happy to receive news of Menegroth’s destruction, like he isn’t happy to receive one vengeful half-elf with one Valar-damned silmaril, but he makes do.

(He wasn’t happy to receive one Gil-galad, either, but that was-that was different.

He has now, at least, a good reason to keep Ereinion from bolting to find Gondolin. The way the lad’s going at it, Cirdan isn’t sure how long he can refuse him. But settling these refugees would take a year at least, and so he knows he has just a little more time.)

***

Gil-galad has no time to waste. His people think he’s Orodreth’s, Elwing’s people (who are dangerously close to becoming also his, at this point) think he’s Fingon’s, and both are conspiring to crown him. He needs to find Gondolin. He needs to find Gondolin _now_.

He tells Cirdan that if he doesn’t get an escort, he’ll ride out alone. Cirdan is surprisingly easy to convince, after that, and he manages to set out with just a month’s preparation.

Gil-galad knows, from the few sightings he’s heard, that Gondolin is vaguely north. Vaguely.

(If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t really think he’ll find Gondolin. People’s tried for centuries; why would this be any different?)

“We will find Gondolin,” he says, to his escort and to Cirdan, who stands frowning at the gates.

“I’ve no doubt you will,” answers the shipwright, stiff.

And they are off.

***

Gil-galad does not find Gondolin, but Gondolin does find him. Or what’s left of it, anyhow. A couple thousand refugees, from the looks of it, few mounted and many injured. They are lightly packed and moving slowly, looking weathered and worn.

(The term isn’t invented yet, but Gil-galad is feeling a strong sense of deja vu.)

“Hail!” cries a fair lady at the front. “I am Idril, daughter of Turgon. Who goes there?”

 _Oh, thank Eru! The Crown Princess!_ “I am Ereinion Gil-galad,” he replies. “We are seeking Gondolin.”

“You will not find it,” she says weakly. “We are what’s left of my father’s fair city. As you can see, we aren’t in good shape. Is there a settlement nearby to give us relief?”

“The havens are four days away, three if the weather is fair,” answers Gil-galad. “But we have rations and hunting bows with us, and I can send a rider for more supplies while the rest of my company remains here to guard your passing.”

Idril seems to crumble with relief. “Thank you, Gil-galad.” She squints. “Are you a Lord? Certainly no one of lesser station would command such fine fighters and steeds.”

It is Edenor, the lieutenant of his guard, who answers. “Lord Gil-galad oversees Sirion under the tutelage of Lord Cirdan. All those who left from Nargothrond and Menegroth are under his protection.”

If she is alarmed by Gil-galad's substantial following, she does not show it. “Will you see to our injured? Many are not faring well.”

“We will,” Gil-galad promises. “After I send the rider back.”

***

Cirdan sends Gil-galad no lesser than a hundred able men, all packed with rations and living necessities.

(He has to consider, once again, that Ereinion might be cursed. The lad is, what, eighty and then some? Not even of age, and already overseeing three fallen realms, two of which call him Lord, and one silmaril. 

He doesn’t know what Eru intends for Gil-galad, and at this point he is too afraid to ask.

That, and he has a headache, the kind he gets before a storm. Whatever he will find when Ereinion returns with the host of Gondolin, it would not be good.)

***

Gil-galad is having a staring contest with Idril, and he is losing.

“So it is settled, then, Lord Gil-galad: you will take the crown.”

“No,” he says. “Please, I will not take what is rightfully your-”

“Rightfully mine?” She chuckles. “I am afraid not. I will deliver my people to Sirion, but a different destiny calls to me. No, the crown will not be mine. I have dreamed of it upon your head, like how I dreamed of Gondolin's fall.”

“And your son?” says Gil-galad, desperate.

“Earendil will choose his own path, in time. Do not sit the crown on a brow that may yet be mortal, Lord Gil-galad.”

Gil-galad lets his face fall into his hands.

A guard approaches their tent. “My Lady,” he says, saluting. “The crowd is ready. We await you and Lord Gil-galad.”

“Good.” She rises. “Escort him to his place.”

Gil-galad is escorted to his place, which is at the end of an aisle (outdoor aisle) flanked by fine Lords and Ladies, their attires in tatters but their spirits as cool and hard as mithril.

He walks down the aisle, solemn and slow. At the end is Idril, in her hands the crown of her fallen father.

Gil-galad kneels.

Idril speaks: “Ereinion Gil-galad, Lord of none and receiver of all, I bequeath you the crown of mine father, Turgon son of Fingolfin. Long has it sat in the protection and solitude of the Encircling Mountains; no more. Here I return kingship to its rightful line.”

Before Gil-galad can process the irony of _rightful line_ , Idril places the crown on his head, and he rises. 

“Long live the High King!”

***

Cirdan does not have a heart attack when he receives Gil-galad, who is a week late.

He does hyperventilate a little when it becomes apparent that the shine on Gil-galad’s head is, in fact, a crown.

(Technically speaking, Cirdan cannot ground a High King. Gil-galad now outranks him many times over and has thrice the support he does.

Practically speaking, Gil-galad will be memorizing all the Lords and Ladies of Gondolin for the rest of the week on top of his shelf organizing duties, kingship be damned.)

He still bows, of course, because an impudent Lord this early into anyone’s reign is beyond devastating. “High King Gil-galad.”

“Lord Cirdan,” greets King Gil-galad, who sounds perfectly dignified to everyone else and absolutely panicking to those who know him.

He is welcomed into his own realm, of course (Cirdan grumbles that it used to be _his_ realm) and the refugees are herded to where they can find rest and shelter. 

Cirdan welcomes the royal family (one tired Tuor, one excited Earendil, one terrified Gil-galad, and one very, very smug Idril) into his halls and catches Turgon’s daughter alone.

“What,” he growls, “are you playing at?”

She gives him a sly smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weatherboy?”

And she walks off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amarphen: earth-person  
> Ruthrion: to rage, son-of (suffix)  
> Achariel: to avenge, daughter-of (suffix)  
> Edenor: new, male suffix
> 
> No one says Idril *didn't* dream of memes.


	4. In which Things happen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirion is burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are posted as they are written, and this one did not want to be written!
> 
> Also happy holidays!

It takes very little time for the survivors of Gondolin to settle in Sirion, partly because they are a recently sacked, previously-isolated city like the other two, partly because many of them are skilled at building walls. Both Nargothrond and Menegroth were cities within caves; Gil-galad hears that those who resided there have trouble with the openness of the skies.

“Then we will build walls,” he says, in front of what can only be called an assorted arrangement of nobility and craftsmen. “Large ones, with room to expand.”

The others look at one another uneasily. “Your Majesty believes that we shall have peace time?”

(Translation: Really, Gil-galad?)

He resists the urge to swallow and wipe his palms of sweat. “Peacetime or not, we are already cramped as it is; who knows what city might be sacked by Morgoth next? I did not know Nargothrond would fall. I did not know Menegroth would burn, or Gondolin would be sacked, but here we are. If there is no peacetime, then there shall be war and its refugees. We will need the room nonetheless.”

Suddenly there are murmurs of agreement across the newly furnished room, Lords and Ladies and stonemasons nodding heads. “Walls it is, then,” one of them says.

And that settles it. 

(Gil-galad pointedly notices Idril’s absence in these meetings. The Princess has, for all appearances, abandoned her people to Gil-galad. She spends most of her time with Cirdan nowadays, up to who-knows-what, though her husband does help with guard duties, however limited by his need for sleep.

And Earendil… well. Gil-galad tries not to think overmuch about Earendil.)

The meeting concludes soon after, and Gil-galad retreats to his new study to eat lunch.

He tries not to feel too relieved to be free of everyone and everything. It’s an honor to serve the people of Beleriand, to soothe their pain and dry their tears. He shouldn’t scorn the throne, even if it’s killed everyone who sat on it before him.

(Except for Maedhros, he supposes, only what Maedhros had gone through was worse than death.)

Gil-galad considers taking his crown off for the meal. The metal isn’t shaped for his head (and he can’t exactly take it off long enough for it to be adjusted, or commission a new one when they don’t even have enough supplies to last the winter, with the new refugees) and it digs painfully into his scalp.

He decides to keep it on his head, in the end. It’s bad enough that he won’t dine with his people; what would they say if a Lady walks in on their King without his crown on his brow?

He finishes his meal in silence and cold contemplation. Then he takes a breath in, a breath out, and steps out into the fray.

***

Gil-galad is marching towards the cellar, and he is going to get himself a drink.

(The signs were all there; why didn’t he see it? How did he not know? He was busy, yes, but not _that_ busy. He still has time for Cirdan. He will always have time for Cirdan.)

He finds one: a wine, though he doesn’t know if it’s good or strong. It smells putrid enough for his purposes, so he pilfers it and stalks back to his room.

(If he doesn’t have time for Cirdan, then blast it, he would _make_ time. He’s their High King, dammit, he should be allowed nice things.)

Gil-galad makes it back without encountering anyone in the corridors. A small mercy. He glances around for cups, only there are none--and he isn’t about to call someone when he’s already snuck all the way back.

Not like he has anyone to share the drink with, anyway.

“Cheers,” he says to himself, and heaves the bottom up.

(... except that’s a lie. He wouldn’t make time for Cirdan if there are children who need singing to bed, or if there are patrols to assign, or Ladies and Lords to greet and parley. Cirdan is his… mentor and supporter, who would stand by him in spite of his… negligence, so he should, by logic, spend his time elsewhere.)

Gil-galad nearly chokes on the first gulp--oh Eru, that burns--but manages to keep it down. 

He knows he’ll regret it in the morning, only he can’t bring himself to care.

(Just hours ago, everything was going right: houses were being built, orchards were being plotted, boats were returning with seaweed and clams--his city was running smoothly, enough that he had, in a moment of idiocy, decided to take the rest of the day off.

Well, not _off_ off. Just… delegating a few trivial tasks tp captains that left him mostly unoccupied. They could still find him easily, if there’s anything urgent.

It would have been fine if Gil-galad only wanted to read or practice his atrocious calligraphy. It would have been fine if Gil-galad planned to nap, even, or just take a stroll.

What was not fine was visiting Cirdan unannounced, which was exactly what he did.

He-it was discourteous, but he _missed_ Cirdan. He wanted to see the shipwright in all his strange, bearded wisdom, to see him braid his troublesome whiskers before leading his men to bend wood into ships. He wanted to hear Cirdan’s voice, chastising him to sleep or eat. He would even settle for just seeing him and exchanging pleasantries, however trite and meaningless, if Cirdan didn’t have the time.

As it turned out, Cirdan didn’t have the time. When Gil-galad walked into his study, he was seated at the tea table with Earendil, speaking passionately about the designs of ships.

Gil-galad had never heard him like that, unfettered and buoyant and joyous all at once. Cirdan sounded young; like all the sorrows of the world was forgotten, and all he could think about was then and there, with Earendil. Gil-galad was frozen at the doorway, stunned.

And then Earendil turned to look at him. “High King Gil-galad!” he cried. “Come, join us for tea! You must convince Lord Cirdan that square sails are, in fact, actual fossils and much inferior to the more triangular ones.”

“Nonsense!” Cirdan replied, chuckling. “Come, Ereinion; tell this upstart that his radical ideas are good only on paper. Never in my life have I heard such sails being wrought!”

They were jesting, Gil-galad realized. Teasing one another. Playing, as if they were friends as well as mentor and student. 

Gil-galad’s innards turned to bile.

He forced himself to smile. It came out well enough; he had, at this point, years of practise. “I’m afraid I must decline,” he told them. “I am only here to borrow a book, for reference. May I, Lord Cirdan?”

“You may,” Cirdan said, but it was distracted. Already he was looking back at Earendil, speaking good-naturedly about ships and waters and all sorts of things Gil-galad would never understand.

He made an appearance of finding a scroll and ignored how incredibly happy they sounded, relaxed and bathing in the gentle afternoon sun. How Earendil made no mistakes at all, like doing the right thing was effortless, like giving people joy was just something you did without trying.

“I’ll take my leave now,” he said, and left unheard.

While Gil-galad’s mind was still caught on that whole scene, his feet took him to his old room.

Like an idiot, he opened the door, and-

-it was filled with tiny ship models, crumpled papers that, upon closer inspection, rendered sketches of triangular sails and sleek bodies of boats-

-Gil-galad closed the door.

He took a breath in, a breath out.

And walked out.)

Gil-galad keeps chugging until he notices, belatedly, that the bottle has long-since been emptied.

“Iss no fair,” he mutters. “He has ‘dril an’ T’or. He has… them. ‘e can’t ‘ave Cirdan, too.”

Not to mention that Earendil stands so much taller, and fairer, and humbler than him. Not to mention how brightly he smiles, how well the crown would look on his head.

(But would Earendil still smile so brightly, if he is King? Will Gil-galad ever learn to make Cirdan smile like that, if only he has the time?)

He wonders if this was how Feanor felt when Fingolfin was born; he understands, then, why they never liked each other. 

Gil-galad wouldn’t have committed Alqualonde, or burned the ships, or sworn an unbreakable Oath that killed--maybe will kill--thousands of people, but this…

This he understands.

***

It’s Idril who finds him in the morning, because of course it is.

“Drink,” she says, setting a cup of something beside his bed. “I’ll take care of today.”

Gil-galad nods.

“Do you want me to tell Cirdan?” she asks.

“No,” he says, and falls back to sleep.

***

Idril leaves with Tuor exactly two weeks after the engagement of Earendil and Elwing because Idril is the most impossible and headache-inducing person Cirdan has ever met.

Except Gil-galad, of course. Still.

Earendil, despite Cirdan’s many-a-asking, insists that he is fine. “I miss them, I do, but knowing mom, they’re going to be fine. And I, well…” He fidgets. “... you already know. I know I’ll be alright. We’ll be alright.”

Judging by the way he looks at Elwing--constantly, insistently, not dissimilar to how Idril looks at Tuor--and how she looks back at him, they would more than alright, and soon.

That doesn’t mean he can’t worry. His first charge is out of his hands; this one he can still steer.

Except Earendil returns later with a sealed letter. “Mom said to give this to you if you look too antsy.”

Cirdan accepts it, and in his infinite wisdom, decides to clear a good few hours to read and digest it.

(Anything at all from that woman has him shaking with trepidation. He is beyond pride at this point; yes, Idril is frightening, and no, he is not ashamed to admit it.)

He opens the letter. The words are in Idril’s hand, and it says-

***

Gil-galad is not sure what sort of mistake he’s made, but if it has Cirdan waiting at his bedroom door at past midnight, then it is a big one.

“Lord Cirdan,” he says, stifling a yawn. “How can I help you?”

Cirdan looks at him gently, delicately, so much so that it can only be bad news. “Let’s sit down first, Ereinion.”

Gil-galad swallows. No one’s called him that since he was crowned, which was… years ago, at this point. He leads them in, and sits by the fireplace. Cirdan is unusually close to him--they aren’t touching, but they can reach each other easily--and the atmosphere is charged.

Not that it stops him from nearly falling asleep in the armchair. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak promptly, my Lord,” he says, dozing. “I can’t seem to stay upright much longer.”

Cirdan seems… reluctant? “I’ll come back tomorrow, then.”

“No, no, you’ve come all this way at this insane hour; it must be urgent.”

The shipwright purses his lips. “It is less urgent than your wellbeing.”

He must really be tired, because Gil-galad snorts out loud. “Right.”

Suddenly Cirdan is standing in front of him, frowning. “Go to bed, Ereinion.”

“I don’t mean to offend you, Lor-”

“ _Call me Cirdan_ , Ereinion. Please.”

Gil-galad is… too tired to argue, right now. “... alright. Cirdan.”

Cirdan nods, then all but hauls Gil-galad to bed. He even helps Gil-galad take his cloak and crown off, which would be embarrassing if Cirdan hadn’t already seen him drowning and feverish.

“You have bruises on your head,” Cirdan seems to say, but it sounds far away now that Gil-galad’s head is in the pillows.

“‘S the crown,” he mumbles, curling into the blankets. “Wrong shape.”

Cirdan opens his mouth to argue, but Gil-galad is already asleep.

***

Cirdan confiscates his crown the next day, because of course he does.

“The way it is, you’ll have it driven into your skull if you fall the wrong way,” the shipwright insists. “Wouldn’t that be a poor way for a Noldor King to die?”

“L-Cirdan,” Gil-galad says, extremely peeved to be once again under bed arrest, “do you not have anything better to do?”

“Seeing how Earendil and Elwing have taken to construct their own home near the shores, and all our duties overseen by capable stewards: no, my King. I do not.”

And then Cirdan frames his hands around Gil-galad’s face and kisses him on the forehead.

Gil-galad is not… sure… what to make of this.

“And if I am to apologize,” Cirdan says, “I would like to do it right.”

“I-” He stares at Cirdan incredulously. “What?”

***

Things Gil-galad discovers that day, in no particular order:

  1. People are prone to mistakes. Gil-galad is not an exception.
  2. However, Gil-galad has also never made a mistake in his life, at least in Cirdan’s eyes. Maybe he will make mistakes one day, but that day has not yet come to pass.
  3. Gil-galad did not con his way to the crown, and nobody thinks so anyways.
  4. Yes, Gil-galad, Idril _is_ impossible. Cirdan thinks so too.
  5. Earendil is a ray of cream and sunshine, though his enthusiasm can be a little much, at times. It is best to consider him as an excitable mutt instead of competition for the throne; he even says it himself, sometimes.
  6. Gil-galad’s sleep schedule is, in fact, _atrocious_.
  7. Gil-galad might be cursed! (Well, he sort figured that one out on his own. Noldo Kings default to being cursed.)
  8. Cirdan will now have tea with the High King at least three times a week. Non-negotiable.
  9. Gil-galad loves Cirdan very, very much.
  10. What a coincidence! Cirdan loves Gil-galad lots and lots, too.



***

Gil-galad vows that he will never have children. One, because he has no time to care for them, and two, if his wife going into labor can reduce cheerful, radiant Earendil to a blubbering mess, he doesn’t know what will happen if it’s his own child being born.

“I-I should b-be in there w-w-w-with her,” Earendil says, pacing maniacally around the room. He’s pulled out so much of his own hair that all the chairs--save the one Gil-galad is camped in--are covered in them. “I-I-I-I-I n-need to-”

“Sit,” Gil-galad pleads for what must be the twentieth time this hour. “Breathe. The sooner you calm down, the sooner the healers will let you back in.”

Before Earendil can say anything back, a healer bursts into the room. “Congratulations,” he says. “You have twin sons. Come in to hold them with your wife.”

“Twins?” Gil-galad stands. Twins are rare to the point of legend. The only other twins history knows are Elured and Elurin, and the Ambarussa. A pair from the line of Noldo Kings, and a pair from the line of Peredhel. This pair is both, Gil-galad supposes.

“TWINS?!?” cries Earendil.

The healer looks between them. “Perhaps you should come too, Your Majesty. To, ah, calm the atmosphere.”

Gil-galad takes the hint and escorts (holds and drags) a dazed Earendil into the room. Inside the air is cool and bloody, and the healers are cleaning their instruments and clearing out; Elwing holds one of her sons in her tired, sweaty arms, while Cirdan holds the other.

Earendil comes to life. “Elwing!”

Elwing rolls her eyes. “Oh, you blubbering fool. Come here and hold your son.”

He walks to his wife, ginger and stiff, to do just that.

“Did you name them?” he asks her.

“This one’s Elrond,” she tells him. “You name the other.”

Earendil pauses. “Elros,” he says. “Star-foam.”

Elwing smiles tiredly. “Star-foam it is.”

For a quiet eternity the pair stays like that, admiring their children and each other, swaying back and forth. Gil-galad and Cirdan exchange a look: that they are fortunate beyond words to have witnessed this, and that they are glad for the young couple. 

(Privately, Gil-galad worries for them. Elwing and Earendil are both part elf, part Man. What does it mean for their children? Are they immortal, or will they part from Arda? Are they susceptible to disease? Do they sleep, or dream the dream of the Eldar?)

Before Gil-galad can spiral himself any further, Earendil beckons him over.

This close, Gil-galad can see the tear tracks on Earendil’s face, and can see how delicately he holds his babes. “Hold Elros for me.”

“I-no-what-no-I-”

The babe is placed in his arms. “Hold his head, like this…”

(Gil-galad does _not_ want to do this why do they want him to do this _What if he drops the baby_ he shouldn’t be doing this oh Eru oh Eru he is holding the baby!!)

Elros is smelly and crying and so soft Gil-galad fears breathing on him, and he is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

His twin, Elrond, coos from Elwing’s arms. “They’ll be the safest children in all the lands with you watching over them.”

Cirdan laughs. “And the most spoiled!”

(Gil-galad would never swear it outloud, but he promises to himself that he will protect them with all that he can. He-he knows nothing about child-rearing, or caretaking, or anything of that sort; but he is High King, dammit, he will defy the will of the Valar himself if that is what it takes to give these two a haven to call home.)

***

Sirion is burning.

(They have stone walls and iron gates, but they’re meant to stand against mindless hordes of orcs, not _flaming catapults_. The wind is high today, too, which means that the fire is spreading fast and roaring high--)

“Run for the docks!” he cries, helping up a young woman who fell in the stampede. “Get onboard the boats! Sail as far out as you can!”

(--they need to get to the waterfront, bring nothing with them but themselves, not even weapons; the vessels they have are for fishing, not ferrying, and there’s simply not enough to carry everyone; not to mention that on a windy day like this, many have taken their sailboats for leisure or practice--)

Gil-galad is dashing between flaming buildings, settling loose as many livestock and steeds as he can. They won’t run far, but some of them might make it, and Eru knows they’ll need whatever produce they can salvage after this.

(--Earendil’s ship, the Vingilote, is built for travel. It can carry enough supplies to last months, or in its stead, many, many passengers. Gil-galad prays to the Valar that it’s still in port; he knows how fervent his friend is in seeking Valinor--)

He hears a cry from inside a building that’s half ash at this point, and dashes in. He sees at once the problem: a beam has fallen on a man, and a child (who looks no older than Elrond and Elros) is bawling beside him.

“Adar!” she cries, looking at him helplessly. “Help adar!”

(--he can’t lift that, not without five strong mariners helping. The man beneath is already unconscious, and his legs look… unsalvageable. The smoke is everywhere. Even he can’t hold out much longer, not to mention a child--)

He picks her up and runs.

(--he catches a glimpse of a tattered banner beside a pile of bodies. It bears an eight-pointed star--)

“Don’t look!” he yells, shielding the child’s face with his body.

(--he _told_ Elwing to surrender the silmaril, he thought she understood, she had Elrond and Elros to think of, why, why, why--)

The waterfront is empty when he reaches it, but there are still boats within sight. “Hold on to my back!” he says, maneuvering the child. “We’re going to take a swim!”

He doesn’t wait for her answer before leaping in, and paddles as hard as he can towards the nearest raft.

Thankfully the passengers spot them and steers in their direction. “Your Majesty, are you alright?” they ask, hauling him up.

Before Gil-galad can answer, a blinding light pierces the horizon to his back.

He turns. There, atop the lighthouse, is Elwing, cornered by Feanorians.

“No,” he breathes.

She falls. But before she can hit the surface of the sea, a gust of power surges from the waters and shrouds her until a large, pale bird emerges from her place and takes to the sky with the silmaril in tow.

Gil-galad weeps.

***

A single Feanorian remains on the docks, and no one dares to approach.

Well, no but him, Gil-galad supposes. He _is_ High King, after all. It’s his job to greet kinslayers and parley with them, even if he is shaking on the spot. With rage.

(So many they have killed, and for what, a rock? Can a silmaril replace the walls they built, the gate they constructed? Can it repair the splintering of their kind? Can it bring back that little girl’s father?

It cannot, of course. The silmaril is nothing more than a shiny, cursed gem. And if these people are willing to slaughter harmless civilians for a trinket, then they are no better than the wretches of Morgoth.)

His whole kingdom is watching right now, just out of arrow-range.

(He insists on going alone. If it’s the King they want, they can have it; his people aren’t in a position to deny anyone anything, right now. Even if all the mariners come with him, they are without weapons. What can they do but meet them at their call?)

He rows his boat steadily towards what might be his doom, and steps confidently onto the boardwalk. “I am Ereinion Gil-galad,” he declares, “High King of the Eldar.”

The Feanorian, surprisingly, bows. “King Gil-galad. My Lords wish to pass on this message: they would trade the freedom of Elrond and Elros Earendilion for the silmaril.”

Gil-galad deflates. “I see,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. The children--ai! Is it not enough that their parents are not here to defend them? That their _King_ is not here to protect them? “Do the Lords of Amon Ereb have aught else to say?”

“No,” she replies, standing. “I bid you farewell.”

Gil-galad watches as she leaves, and signals to his captains that they are safe to land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still looking for beta reader! email me @ villainousvivs@gmail.com if you're interested.

**Author's Note:**

> All non canon names are from https://www.fantasynamegenerators.com


End file.
